Chapter 2 Lucy
Lucy
“Where did these giant men come from?”
The bar is packed with bodies, many of them broad shouldered.
They’re taking up more space than the average human, and I glance around, perplexed.
It’s like someone in town put out a Bat-Signal for giants, and they all decided to congregate here, crowding Lakeside Brew with their booming laughs and oversize appetites.
“I’m being serious. Where did these enormous men come from?
” Annabelle asks again. She scans the room, perched on a barstool beside me, a glass of cheap wine in her hand.
They don’t serve wine at Lakeside Brew (it’s mostly microbrews and IPAs), but Ben, the owner, lets her keep a bottle behind the counter.
Why? Because this is Annabelle and rules bend for her the way trees bend for the wind.
Plus, Ben wants to bang her.
“I don’t know.” I spin on my stool, pretending I don’t know who these guys are, to have a little fun with Annabelle. One of the guys is posturing three feet away, flexing his biceps as he talks. “Maybe they heard your cries for lumberjacks and came in droves.”
Annabelle snorts. “The lumberjacks I hired look nothing like this.”
Half of these behemoths are either pounding back beers or shouting across tables at each other, all testosterone and bravado. It’s not exactly the usual crowd for a sleepy night in our sleepy lake town.
My best friend leans in. “Do you think they’re a team or something? Or a beefcake contest?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “If it’s a beefcake contest, I want a front-row seat.”
“Preach.” She raises her glass. “I do feel like these guys are like cockroaches—they’re turning up everywhere.
” She clinks her wineglass against mine in solidarity.
“I don’t have time for testosterone-filled blowhards.
Speaking of lumberjacks—I’m coordinating Fall Fest, and only three of my lumberjacks have shown up for practice. ”
“Know what I’ve been wondering?” I tap on the side of my drink. “Since when do they hire lumberjacks for the fall festival?”
Annabelle waves me off like I’ve completely missed the point. “Since it became trendy on the internet. We’re going to have them chop wood in flannel shirts for a live demonstration.” Her voice lowers dramatically. “Think: outdoorsy. Think: photo ops. Tourists eat that shit up.”
She’s not wrong.
We live in a popular lake town full of them; tourists appear with money and an appetite for anything giving them a real slice of quaint lake living. A little waterskiing show during the day, campfires at night—paired with an organic latte from the local café.
Suddenly they’re posting about how they’ve disconnected and reconnected with nature, all while their gas-guzzling luxury SUVs sit parked a few feet away.
“Is this actually about tourists?” I roll my eyes. “Or is this an excuse for you to watch a bunch of buff guys chop wood?”
She sips her wine. “Can’t two things both be true?”
“Yes, but—”
“Listen,” Annabelle interrupts. “I paid those douchebags a deposit! Three out of eight showed up, Lucy! Three. I’m going to need more lumberjacks. Where does one even find more lumberjacks?”
“You still have time for them to show,” I remind her. “The festival isn’t until next weekend, and it’s only Saturday.”
Annabelle snorts. “I’m serious, Lucy. I need these logs split, or the country charm of Fall Fest will be ruined. I’ve got, like, an aesthetic to maintain.”
“Clearly,” I tell her, keeping a straight face, but inside I’m fighting the urge to laugh. Only Annabelle would stress about the aesthetic of wood chopping at a small-town festival. “What about pumpkins?”
After all, the festival is called Fall Fest.
“Way too soon for those,” she says, waving me off. “It’s only September.”
The festival in Star Lake, Washington, is the town’s biggest event of the year, and Annabelle’s been planning it for months. I can’t help but visualize her wrangling eight guys from Rent-a-Lumberjack like some kind of petting zoo.
Honestly, watching her figure this out will probably be more entertaining than the festival itself.
Maybe I’ll sell tickets.
Annabelle sighs, then takes another long sip of her wine. “I swear, Lucy, if one more thing goes wrong with this festival, I’m going to lose it. Clarke Robinson was going to repaint the old sign and ended up needing stitches in his palm.”
I’m dying to ask her how painting a sign could lead to stitches but don’t want to trigger her.
“You’re not going to lose it,” I reassure her. “You’re going to rally and pull off an amazing weekend because that’s what you do. And then you’ll act like it was simple and no big deal.”
As the town’s only wedding planner, Annabelle is the most organized and creative person I know. I’m struggling to plan our friend Kiersten’s bachelorette party; I could never plan an entire event for an entire town.
The only thing I’m good at is yoga, which doesn’t require creativity.
“Simple and no big deal? Stop flattering me.” My bestie narrows her eyes at me, but I can see she’s pleased with the praise. “You make me sound like some kind of hero.” Annabelle tosses her hair.
I laugh. “Someone has to be the hero of the Fall Fest. And it sure as hell won’t be Clarke.”
“Freaking Clarke,” Annabelle grumbles. “I swear to God. The worst part is, he’s the only one I could get to volunteer! And can we not forget it’s high season? I got stopped twice outside Loon Landing Café this morning by tourists asking for directions to the nearest Starbucks.”
The nearest Starbucks is fifty-five miles away, if that gives you any idea about how remote we are.
She rests her chin in her hand, looking genuinely stressed. “I don’t know what I’m going to do if the rest of those lumberjacks don’t show up, Luce. I mean, three guys can’t split all those logs by themselves. It’ll take them all day!”
All the logs?
How many logs does she have if she needs all those men?
I nibble on my bottom lip. “Well, hmm. You could always fake it? Set up a bunch of already-split logs and let people pretend to chop them for fun.” I grin, half joking. “Throw in a hashtag like #StarLakeStrong and you’ll have people lining up for their turn with an axe.”
If we don’t mind all those severed limbs.
Annabelle stares at me for a moment, like she’s actually considering it. “You know, that’s not the worst idea.”
“Uh. I was kidding. Say it with me: liability.”
She shrugs, sipping her wine again. “It’s better than people showing up to a lumberjack demo with no jacks and no demo. Besides, it’s all about the aesthetic, right?”
So she keeps pointing out. “You really think people won’t notice the logs are already chopped?”
“Have you met tourists? They’ll take one look at those flannel-wearing hunks holding an axe and think they’re witnessing some kind of historical reenactment.” She leans back in her chair, looking wise and pleased with herself. “Trust me, they won’t care.”
I snort. “Well, in that case, maybe you should have the lumberjacks pose with the logs and skip the chopping altogether. They can hand out autographs after.”
“I know you’re joking, but don’t think I wouldn’t do it if I got desperate.”
A loud laugh interrupts our musings, and we glance over at a group of buff dudes sitting several tables away.
They’re loud, obnoxious—and trying to impress anyone within a fifty-foot radius. One of them is currently attempting to flip quarters into a beer glass, only for one to fly off the table and onto the floor. It spins before dropping with a metallic clank.
So immature.
“What are they, still in college?” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “Look how competitive they’re acting. Like, jeez, they’re flipping those things like there’s a prize?”
Annabelle sips her wine. “Guys will do anything if it comes with a trophy at the end.”
“True,” I say, watching as another big guy attempts to get the quarter in the glass with a flick of his index finger. But it sails through the air and hits the person at the next table in the back.
“Honestly, I’d pay money to see them chop wood,” I reluctantly admit.
Annabelle raises an eyebrow. “Would you actually?”
I smile despite myself. “Those big, sweaty muscles? Swinging axes in the sun? Uh—yes.”
She grins. “Yeah, me too.”
I laugh and take a sip of my drink. “I’m only human, after all.”
And I haven’t gotten laid in . . . Lord.
I have no idea how long—which isn’t a good sign.
Annabelle and I turn to ogle the group again. “They’re pretty to look at—I’ll give them that. Even if they have the combined brainpower of a light bulb.”
“Hey, we never said they had to be smart.” I watch as one of the guys flexes his arms for no reason. “Just, you know—aesthetically pleasing,” I tease, throwing her words back at her.
We laugh, watching for another minute before turning back to our drinks. They seem harmless, but it’s like watching a pack of overgrown puppies try to act tough.
“Anyway.” Annabelle sighs. “Enough about me. What’s going on with you?”
My eyes dart to the men in the room, then back to my bestie.
“Well.” I sip from my glass, savoring the cheap, delicious wine as it slides down my throat. “Those big dudes, mostly. I’m doing a few group sessions down by the harbor.”
“Um. Can I come? And why didn’t you say anything before?”
I laugh. “Of course you can.”
She and I are both single and always ready to mingle, although to be fair, she and I are actually choosy about who we date.
And sleep with.
I’m not in a rush to start a family. In fact, I’m still on the fence about having kids of my own. But I would love to be in a relationship and all the things that go along with it.
Sex.
Sex.
And laughter, obviously.
Annabelle nudges me out of my daze. “Girl, you’re about to live the dream. Teaching hot guys at sunrise? You’ll be coach and eye candy, and I’m officially jealous.”
Yeah right. Between the two of us, my friend has far better luck with men—mostly because she’s bold and never lets an opportunity pass her by.
Oh, and she’s currently hooking up with the mayor’s son, Tim.
He looks exactly like a “Tim” and acts like one too—cocky, clean cut, and convinced he’s the most interesting guy in the room. It’s nothing serious—a casual fling to get over Mike—but she’s getting some action out of it and the occasional free meal.
As much as my friend insists she’d love to swap places and escape her situationship, I think she secretly loves having sex with the mayor’s son.
I, on the other hand, have the dating instincts of a gnat.
More than one person has told me I wouldn’t recognize a man flirting with me, and honestly? They’re right. I’m always the last one to realize when someone is romantically interested in me.
I smirk, swirling my glass before taking a sip. “We’ll see how dreamy it is after tomorrow’s first class. Something tells me they’re going to spend more time falling over each other than doing yoga.”
But I can’t lie—I’m excited, and it will be fun to watch them fumbling around.
“Oh, please.” She rolls her eyes. “You know they’ll be coming to gawk at the pretty yoga teacher. I bet half of them don’t know the difference between downward dog and a dog pile.”
“A dog pile of shit?” I laugh, nodding. “I wouldn’t be surprised if they don’t take it seriously. I already feel like it’ll be wrangling a herd of cats.”
“Oddly enough that’s what my mother says about us.”
We dissolve into laughter, and I can’t help but glance back at the players clustered around the bar, their boisterous energy filling the room. One of them, oblivious to his own size, attempts an awkward spin, nearly taking out a neighboring table.
“Tell me what else is going on,” Annabelle begs. “Are you back on the dating apps?”
I hate that she’s bringing this up, and groan. Ugh. “I tried the Kissmet app for all of twenty minutes before I realized every man on it was someone we already know.”
Annabelle grins. “That, my friend, is what we call a cosmic joke.”
“Right? It was like scrolling through my own personal nightmare. Or our yearbook. I’d swipe, and bam—Taylor from high school.
Or the man who did my oil change. Then I saw the kid who works at the bank.
” I shudder at the thought. “After that, I deleted it. The universe is telling me to put the app on pause.”
I can’t escape.
I give my glass a swirl, eyeballing what’s left of my wine. “I really am an idiot for not hooking up with tourists. They come, they go, no strings attached.” My hand waves flippantly through the air.
Annabelle nods sagely. “True. Most of them are probably either married, old—or here for bachelor parties. It’s slim pickings even on a good day.”
“Exactly,” I say. “You’d think living in a small town by the water would attract a few eligible men. But no. The only new faces we see are here for a weekend of questionable decisions before heading back to their real lives.”
Don’t get me wrong. Our little town is gorgeous. Glistening water in the summer and snowcapped mountains in the winter? It’s like a postcard, if postcards came with an astronomical nightly price tag.
I probably wouldn’t be living in this town if it weren’t for my parents and the guesthouse above their detached garage where I live for free . . . one of the perks of having parents with prime real estate.
Despite the dwindling dating pool and the ever-present tourists, this town is home.
There’s a sense of comfort in its familiarity, in the faces I see daily—even if those faces occasionally pop up on Kissmet with cringeworthy pickup lines.
Guh!
“Who knows?” I shrug, feigning nonchalance. “Maybe Mr. Right will magically appear in my yoga class tomorrow. Stranger things have happened.”
Spoiler alert: Mr. Right does not appear in my yoga class the next morning.
Instead, I’m greeted by a crowd of eight massive guys who look like they’ve been dragged here by their fingernails. These aren’t the bright-eyed, flirty singles I hoped for. And, judging by the glint of wedding rings on several fingers, at least half these hotties are off the market.
And Mr. Wrong? Doesn’t look like he’s showing up either.